


August, Rising from Hell

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Gore, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29119359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: August Walker died and went to hell, but you have brought him back. It might’ve been an error in judgement.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	August, Rising from Hell

He is bloody, he is bare, he is naked and hissing from the paper-thin fresh skin that grows over his flesh. He is made new. 

He is made beautiful, and awful, and cruel. And he has missed you so _terribly._

And he will leave red smears on everything he touches as he’s crowding you, not even to the bed but to the wall where he grips your wrists in one skeletal hand and pins them above your head. He will whisper to you, his words half-lost in the sound of his sucking chest wound, in the softly squelching wet noises of his skin adhering back to muscle. 

August Walker died and went to hell, and you have called him back. Whether or not you’ll regret it depends on how much of yourself he’ll let you keep. _You shouldn’t have,_ he whispers as he’s leaning in to tear strings of flesh from your neck. _You shouldn’t have brought me back._ He’s neither man nor demon but something half-realized, reconstructed from the outside in. His cock is wet and red, raw, all nerves that fire in open air even as he’s clawing the clothes from your body one-handed, as he’s dropping your hands to lift and part your legs. 

His face twists when he pushes inside because it hurts him so, the way slicked with his own blood, his skinless flesh dragging along your walls. He pulses in time to the skin that tries to grow back, only to be torn away again with every thrust. And he is so strong, so terribly strong, with the preternatural power of worlds beyond. He pins you up against the wall with his hips, so that every time he moves it shoves you up and into the wall, little flakes of plaster raining down like ash, insects and forgotten bits of filth sticking to the sweat and blood that coat your skin. 

And it’s not just his blood that slicks you now, is it? The stretch and burn and press of him has you writhing; the knowledge of his pure strength and viciousness has you mewling in that way he liked so much before. And you are bloody, you are aching, you are ruined; you are closer, physically, to him than you’ve ever been. His teeth are on your neck again, tearing free the strings of flesh from a raw and gaping wound. 

_I missed you_ as he’s chewing your flesh, as he takes it inside himself to grow his own. 

_Come with me_ as he’s rolling his hips, as his skin rubs and splits against yours. 

_Be mine_ as he’s coming hard inside you, a strangely icy feeling that grips you from the inside. 

And you open your mouth; you’d answer but your breath is gone, knocked loose by sensation that has you airless and clenching around him. But he sees your answer anyway, and his face splits wide open in a grin.


End file.
